Loose Ends
by stakeh
Summary: SasukeGaara. Smut. Gaara was use to it, and perhaps a part of him liked it. Sasuke didn’t know. He never asked.


* * *

The walls were pulsing with every high-strung note, perfectly in pitch; a bit over the top, however, the notes flexing and nearly hitting a trill. But the bass was the ruler, thrumming throughout his body like a gentle lover. Gaara gasped for air, twisting to the side in hopes of attaining some relief from the burning coils that were beginning to tighten inside of him. There were fingers knotted into his hair, locking him in place; fingers with chipped blue nail polish glossed sloppily onto them and the palest streaks of silver somewhere within that vibrant azure; fingers long and thin, pale from gripping so hard. He could barely register his own name over the own pounding in his head, constant and unrelenting. He felt tipsy, drunk. 

There were shadows on the walls, and shadows stretched under his closed eyelids, stretched right across high cheekbones and ending sharply just below those two glittering eyes of an indiscernible color. Sometimes Sasuke had found himself attempting to name that anomalous hue of green, but he'd never been able to label them. They weren't just green, and they weren't just blue—Sasuke had about given up.

His fingers pressed down harder, if it was possible, and he was sure he had left bruises over just about every square inch of skin he could get to by now. Gaara was use to it, and perhaps a part of him liked it. Sasuke didn't know. He never asked. All he could do was continue and struggle to keep the pressure high, not that it was all _that_ hard. Parts, at least, but not saying names.

But there was no doubt about it—it was euphoric. Every little detail, right down to the very corners of Gaara's swollen lips, and it made him want to scream something godawfully obscene, or something gorgeous to the point that it hurt his straining throat. He felt like he could come at any moment simply by the sight of the redhead, down on his knees, but he wouldn't. Not now, at least, but that much was expected of him.

There was something soft caressing the inside of his thigh suddenly, and Sasuke jerked without breaking constant, sucking in a mouthful of air at the touch. Gaara had barely even graced him contact over these last days, as far as skin-to-skin went, and Sasuke felt like he'd been fasting for a week. It had been a week, hadn't it?—more? He wasn't sure, nor did he really care. Pointless thoughts, distracting the main attraction.

There were pictures in his head, flashing screen by screen, settling on the finer points that had been presented to Sasuke over time. Glimpses of pallid skin along the line of a short shirt, that perfect tilt only Gaara seemed to be capable of pulling off, when he turned his head just so, revealing the flawless sculpture of his neck and just a ways down his shirt to Sasuke during a very crucial math quiz, from just across the room. All of it had been planned, and Sasuke knew it—not that he minded. It was all part of the game.

So that they would come together in the end, in such a way; their starvation so great and so unbearable there was barely any room for words. Though, in all honesty, they didn't talk that much, anyway. Neither of them was very advanced in that territory, and it was better in the silence afterward. Or rather, within the closed-in walls, pulsing to their own heartbeat. Alive, and they throbbed. Like himself.

In truth, the only time that the two of them found it appropriate to talk, or make a sound at all, was during the sex. It was how they communicated, of course. Through their bodies, through their fingertips—that was how they reached into each other's souls.

"…Sasuke," Gaara mumbled, eyes glazed over with something unreadable, his lips sliding upward to trace the dip in the other boy's hipbone. Sasuke shivered, but didn't move. He never moved until Gaara was ready. The other boy continued, after a quick inhalation, kisses becoming more and more frequent, more and more sloppy, careless. The heat was rising, and thank the gods that the house outside of this room was empty as a ghost town. Otherwise, the soon-to-be disruptions would definitely be too much.

"…Yes? Do you need something?" he teased, eyelids fluttering and dark lashes accenting his already unnatural beauty. The offhanded discourse ended abruptly after Sasuke's unimportant question, because suddenly Gaara found a new pressure point. Testing, his pillow-soft tongue darted to caress a protruding vein.

Sasuke writhed much like Gaara had before, letting an incoherent curse rip from his tightened throat. It was becoming too much, but then again, it was _never _enough.

His nails bore down onto his scalp. But Gaara was used to it. Maybe. He wouldn't ask.

The endings of their dances were frayed, and however hard Sasuke tried to mend them together again, something never failed to unravel the delicate strings once more. He found it almost unnerving. Maybe Gaara wanted it that way. Maybe. All that the two of them were, together, was a pair of loose ends, stitched into awkward patterns that made no sense and had much to be desired. But at least their beauty made up for it, even if their souls were the ones with the rips and tears, and no one could touch that boundary but themselves. If they'd allow it once in a while.

Gaara's tongue traced faster now, more urgent, licking the muscle and gliding along almost sensually. It was only a ploy in preparation for something else, something so much more dark and twisted. He was doing everything by heart—knew the exact pattern of Sasuke's pale skin, to every bruise left both by him and not. Knew every flaw, though there were few, but that's why it was so easy to remember them all. A minor scar along the back of the curve of Sasuke's thigh—he'd outlined it with his tongue specially.

The line that had drawn out between reality and oblivion didn't seem to apply to Gaara, and Sasuke knew this, he had come to an understanding, just as the redhead's mouth had descended upon him, taking him in at once. He knew oblivion and reality all at once, it seemed, like they were good friends only just gone away for a year. Now that they were back, Sasuke realized how much he'd missed them, missed this _feeling_, missed such an electrifying _fix. _Yes, he'd been craving it like an addict put through withdrawal every other week; and the sad part was, that was only part of the game too.

Just a game, no strings attached, _too_ tightly.

When Sasuke came, and Gaara diligently swallowed, not once wasting a pearly drop, oblivion retreated to its side of the battlefield, and reality to the other. They didn't even wave farewell.

No strings attached? But they were falling apart so nicely already.

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Review? 

For Kaila. Merry Christmas.


End file.
